


Cooldown

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Kneeling, Locker Room, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21606796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Akaashi’s fingertips brush the top of Bokuto’s kneepads, his thumb touches to slide across bare skin, and Bokuto has no breath left to offer so much as a whine of encouragement." Akaashi takes his time and Bokuto is impatient.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 26
Kudos: 295





	Cooldown

Bokuto groans at the back of his throat and drops his head against the row of lockers behind him. The weight rattles at the metal, clattering sound to echo over on itself in the otherwise unbroken silence of the changing room. “A _kaa_ shi.”

Akaashi’s sigh is clear enough that Bokuto can hear it even over the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. “I’ve told you before, Bokuto-san.” One of his hands slides against Bokuto’s leg, tracing up the back of his knee to rise along the flex of muscle straining at his thigh. “We need to be quiet.”

Bokuto lets all the air out of his lungs in a rushing exhale. “I  _ know_,” he protests. “But it’s hard when you--” and Akaashi’s fingers skim up under the loose hem of his shorts to brush over the bare skin at the tops of his kneepads. It’s only the lack of breath that stifles Bokuto’s reaction to voicelessness instead of the heated encouragement it might have been. “ _Akaashi_.”

“You asked me to do this,” Akaashi points out. He’s looking up at Bokuto from beneath the dark weight of his lashes; even on his knees at the locker room floor, the steady attention in that gaze bears absolute control over himself, and the situation, and Bokuto leaning his shaky balance back against the row of lockers behind him. Bokuto would swear his knees go weaker just for the dark of that gaze meeting his. “You said you couldn’t wait.”

“I  _ can’t_,” Bokuto says. “I’ve been watching you play for  _ hours_, there’s no  _ way _ I could make it any longer than this.”

“That’s what you said,” Akaashi agrees. His fingers trail along the bare skin at the top of Bokuto’s thigh, shifting like he’s fitting the curve of the other’s leg against his grip with as much dexterity as his fingers find the seams of a volleyball. Bokuto drops his head back against the lockers again and whimpers with the sensation of the friction coursing up the inside of his thigh to flex heat at his groin. “That’s why I agreed to do this for you here, Bokuto-san. But you need to be more quiet.”

Bokuto nods his head. “Okay.”

“You understand?” Akaashi asks. His fingers slide around the back of Bokuto’s thigh. Even just that one touch feels steadier than Bokuto can manage in the whole of his body together. “Tell me you understand, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto groans and presses his head back against the lockers, tilting his face up to the ceiling as he squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah, I understand.”

Akaashi hums. “Thank you.” His tone is polite, as carefully respectful as the honorific he consistently adds to Bokuto’s name, but when his free hand fits against the front of Bokuto’s thigh the weight of it is familiarly intimate even before his palm slides up to press against the inside line of the other’s leg. Bokuto whimpers without opening his eyes and reaches out to drag his fingers in pursuit of friction against the edge of the locker next to him as Akaashi’s wrist dips under the hem of his shorts to urge them up higher on his leg. Akaashi’s fingertips brush the top of Bokuto’s kneepads, his thumb touches to slide across bare skin, and Bokuto has no breath left to offer so much as a whine of encouragement. His knees feel weak, tense with anticipation that strips his strength far more effectively than any of tonight’s extra practice, and it’s while his heart is hammering with adrenaline that Akaashi’s thumb slips up to the top of Bokuto’s thigh, and the friction of his hand is replaced with the heat of his lips.

It’s a good thing that Bokuto hasn’t yet figured out how to replace the air he already spent from the fluttering tension gripping his chest so tightly. He’s sure he would moan if he had the breath for it, would spend all the voice at his lips to a plea of heat at the first long-awaited touch of Akaashi’s lips at his skin. As it is when his mouth comes open his throat works on silence, the stall in his breathing the only voice for the shudder of pleasure that quakes his thighs against Akaashi’s hold and arches his hips up against the support of the lockers at his back.

Akaashi doesn’t lift his head. His fingers are gentle against Bokuto’s thigh, his palms pressing to hold the other still; when he turns his head Bokuto can feel the soft curls of the other’s hair brushing against him, catching at the pushed-up hem of his shorts and feathery at his skin as Akaashi presses a line of deliberate kisses along the flex of Bokuto’s thigh before him. Bokuto imagines he can feel the ghosting drag of Akaashi’s lashes over his skin as the other blinks, can feel his leg tremble in the other’s hold as Akaashi moves over the big muscle at the top of his thigh and around to the dip at the side, and he brings all his focus to bear on his breathing so he can drag an inhale and find the ragged edges of voice from the distance to which they have been scattered.

“Akaashi,” Bokuto hears himself say, the familiar name worn to a plea by the arousal shaking in his thighs and aching impatience along his spine. “Akaashi, hey, please.” His hand reaches for the other’s hair, shaking fingers slide clumsy force through the dark curls. “Please Akaashi, I can’t wait, I  _ can’t_.”

Akaashi’s sigh is so close against Bokuto’s skin that the heat of it slides under the fabric of his clothes like a caress. “You say that every time, Bokuto-san.”

“It’s true,” Bokuto blurts. Akaashi’s hair tousles soft under his touch; he pushes down to skim his fingertips over the delicate texture of vertebra pressed close under skin at the back of the other’s neck before lifting his other hand to trace the curve of the other’s ear free of the locks of hair falling around it. “It’s always true, Akaashi,  _ please_.”

“Please speak more softly, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says. “Your voice is echoing.” He ducks his head forward; this time when his lips meet Bokuto’s skin there’s a part to them, a gap for his tongue to brush against the salt clinging to the other’s body.

Bokuto groans. “ _Akaashi_.”

“I’ll give you what you want,” Akaashi tells him. His tongue brushes against Bokuto’s skin; Bokuto can feel the heat of it spike up the inside of his thigh to flex at his groin and throb heartbeat-hot in his cock. His groan is softer than the last, but more from a lack of breath than any coherent intention. Akaashi presses his mouth into another kiss at the back of Bokuto’s thigh before he draws back over his heels to look up at the other’s face. “You’ll enjoy it more if you’re patient.”

“I have been,” Bokuto protests. He drops his head back against the lockers behind him, his lashes dipping his vision to darkness while he struggles with both hands for traction at Akaashi’s silky hair. “I  _ have _ been, A _kaa_ shi, you  _ know _ I have been but I just  _ can’t _ wait any more.”

“Well you’re going to have to,” Akaashi says, with what would be an edge in anyone else’s voice and falls statement-flat off his tongue, and his fingers lift to push up the outside of Bokuto’s opposite thigh. Bokuto moans, attempting protest in the back of his throat, but Akaashi’s fingers are coursing heat through him even over his kneepads and it’s the pleasure that takes the lead over his tight-wound frustration. Akaashi’s hand presses up, Bokuto’s shorts slide higher in advance of his touch, and when the tip of his middle finger skims bare skin Bokuto whimpers and pushes his hands farther down to cradle the back of Akaashi’s head in his palms.

“Yes,” he says, pleading and hopeful at the same time so the word turns to a crooning whimper. “Please, yes, Akaashi I want you, I want--” and Akaashi dips his head forward and Bokuto’s legs flex as lips brush the highest part of his thigh, his hips rocking upward off the lockers behind him to bring his skin closer to the delicate weight of Akaashi’s mouth on him. His voice breaks outright, cracking itself to pieces over the height to which enthusiasm has forced it, and while he tries to retrieve the shattered fragments Akaashi turns his head to continue his deliberate exploration, as calm and composed as if he doesn’t hear the sounds working free of Bokuto’s throat and doesn’t feel the desperate grip of Bokuto’s fingers struggling in his hair. His mouth presses to Bokuto’s skin, printing the texture of kisses high over the topmost edge of Bokuto’s kneepads, and Bokuto sags back into the support behind him, trembling and weak-kneed from the warmth Akaashi’s mouth bleeds out into him.

Bokuto loses his breath to protest for greater speed. He still feels the ache for it, the thrumming tension of expectation building to an unbearable peak in his chest, under his fingertips, through his cock, but the strain adds clarity to the touch of Akaashi’s lips, brings into sharp relief every drag of his mouth and glancing touch of his tongue. Bokuto’s tension gives way with each brief contact, his body wound past the point of bearing until all there is is to surrender when Akaashi’s tongue trails a line of ticklish heat across the top of his trembling thigh. He moans in the back of his throat, even the strength of his voice stripped down to a quiver of need, and when Akaashi turns his head to kiss against the straining muscle of Bokuto’s thigh Bokuto drops his head back to rattle proof of his submission against the locker doors.

He’s resigned himself. Akaashi clearly intends to keep him here forever, with his knees shaking threat of dropping him to the floor while he offers the teasing heat of his mouth across Bokuto’s legs and along the tops of his thighs and never quite where Bokuto wants him. There’s no point to pleading, he might as well give up to the endlessly pleasurable torment of having too much and not enough in the same breath; and it’s just as he’s thinking that that Akaashi’s hand reaches to slide up beneath the opposite leg of Bokuto’s shorts.

He’s efficient in his movement. Bokuto had begun to expect the slow wandering of the path Akaashi is making with his mouth against the other’s thigh, had almost found the rhythm underlying what seems like impossible slowness to Akaashi’s motion, but this is quick, smooth and graceful and still so fast that Bokuto is left breathless with the shock of it. Akaashi’s hand is on his thigh, is sliding up his leg; and reaching past it, skipping right over the topmost line his lips found to reach up higher still, past the crease of Bokuto’s thigh and towards -- and Akaashi’s fingers brush Bokuto’s cock, the traction of his skin dragging over the other’s, and Bokuto jerks and groans a plea too desperate to bring anything more than the open vowel of the other’s name straining in his throat.

Akaashi doesn’t even lift his head. One hand is braced against Bokuto’s thigh, his fingers gripping to hold the other’s shorts clear of the seemingly idle touch of his lips brushing to Bokuto’s trembling leg; the other is reaching up and around, his fingers stretching to curl to a grip around Bokuto’s cock as familiar and certain as if he has practiced with this as much as the tosses that he arcs through the air to land solidly at Bokuto’s palm. His thumb catches around Bokuto’s shaft, his fingers slide up and over the other’s length, and Bokuto feels his thoughts go dizzy with the sensation, feels his thighs flex and his hips jerk in uncoordinated response. Akaashi just pushes his bracing hand higher, his arm working to steady at Bokuto’s hip, and when his tongue slides across Bokuto’s thigh the action comes with a pull of his grip that shudders a moan through what feels like the whole of Bokuto’s body.

He has no complaints, now. He is still taut, can still feel the pressure of arousal straining through every fiber of his body as he builds towards expectation, as insistent want forms itself to heated certainty, but Akaashi’s fingers are working over him, and Akaashi’s lips are against his skin, and Bokuto can’t imagine anything he could want more. He’s glad for the resistance of the lockers at his back, grateful to the support they offer to his sagging shoulders and his heavy head; he can lean into them, can groan appreciation without any of the strain that would come from trying to support his balance as well. Akaashi has him, his hold steady and his motion certain, and Bokuto gives himself up entirely to the guidance of the other’s touch against him. His breath is straining, dropping deep into his chest as he gulps lungfuls of steam from the air around him, as his knees quake and shudder with the anticipation building in him, swelling up from his belly and reaching out for his body. He can feel his orgasm cresting, surging in the rhythm of Akaashi’s fingers moving over him, drawn deep by the touch of Akaashi’s lips high at his leg, and then Akaashi lifts his head to rock back over his knees and away.

Bokuto lifts his head, scrambling for coherency as protest surges through his thoughts, but Akaashi doesn’t give him time to think of the words to voice complaint. He’s moving immediately, reaching up with his bracing hand for the waistband of Bokuto’s shorts so he can pull the elastic down the other’s hips. Bokuto catches a breath as his cock comes free and Akaashi’s movement stalls in the tangle he’s made of the other’s clothing, but Akaashi is leaning forward already, tilting in even as his grip loosens so he can slide his hand free from Bokuto’s clothing. He lifts his hands, his palms catching to brace hard at Bokuto’s hips, and then he tips in to open his mouth for the heat of Bokuto’s cock.

Bokuto doesn’t hear the sound he makes as Akaashi’s mouth closes around him. He makes  _ some _ noise, he can feel it flex in his chest and run ragged in his throat, but his ears are ringing too loud with his heartbeat for him to make it out. He rocks forward off the lockers, shoulders curving in and hands coming out to reach for traction, for stability, for some means to slow the heat rushing towards him, but Akaashi’s lips are already pressing to his shaft, and Akaashi’s mouth is hot around him, and Akaashi’s tongue is weighting against the underside of his cock. Akaashi shifts his head, his tongue slips to draw up over Bokuto’s length, and Bokuto reaches to clutch at the soft of Akaashi’s hair as he wails “ _Akaashi_ ” into a moan of orgasm breaking over him at last. His fingers tighten to fists, his throat closes on heat, his vision blanks to white, and he comes in a rush that pulses through the whole of his body, a new rhythm for his existence defined and shaped by the weight of Akaashi’s lips close against his skin.

Bokuto still has his hands in Akaashi’s hair when he comes back to earth. His shoulders are curved far forward, his body tilted in until he thinks he would be in danger of falling were it not for the unflinching support of Akaashi’s palms pinning his hips back against the lockers behind him. Even with the brace it’s hard for Bokuto to pull himself back into the structure of balance; he ends up falling to the lockers again, breathing hard and feeling his knees tremble as Akaashi draws back from his spent cock and pauses to swallow and clear his mouth. Bokuto stays where he is, trembling with heat against the lockers and with his fingers wound into Akaashi’s hair, as Akaashi draws his shorts back into place around his hips in an effort to return Bokuto to some kind of composure. Bokuto doesn’t take much notice of it, in any case, until Akaashi rocks back over his heels and lifts a hand to touch at Bokuto’s wrist.

“Bokuto-san.” Bokuto blinks and tips his head to look back down to where Akaashi is still kneeling before him. “We should leave as soon as you’re ready.”

Bokuto stares at Akaashi. “Huh?”

“Someone could come in,” Akaashi says. His gaze is as level as his voice, neither making the least reference to the way friction has flushed his lips soft and red or to the heat tinging his cheeks to pink. “I can tell them we were practicing late, but when you’re ready--”

“I’m not,” Bokuto blurts, and reaches to grab at Akaashi’s shoulder as the other makes a motion towards rising to his feet from the floor. The action is too hasty for Bokuto’s already uncertain balance and it sends him stumbling forward into a fall; it’s only Akaashi throwing his hands up to grip at Bokuto’s hips that stops him short, and even then Bokuto’s knees land next to Akaashi’s as his arm catches around the other’s neck. Bokuto doesn’t try to straighten into composure; he just turns his head so his nose brushes the curl of Akaashi’s hair and he can speak against the angle of the other’s jaw. “I’m not ready yet.”

Bokuto feels the sigh Akaashi heaves where they’re pressing against each other. “Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, in the deliberate tone he adopts when he is preparing to point out a particularly obvious fact. His hands shift at Bokuto’s hips, his grip tightens in preparation for an urging push back. “I’ve gotten you off once already, if you want another--”

“I want  _ yours_,” Bokuto whines, and turns his head to nuzzle closer against Akaashi’s neck. “You’re hard, aren’t you?” He keeps his arm around Akaashi’s neck but lets his grip at the other’s shoulder free so he can reach down and fumble at the front of Akaashi’s shorts. He can’t see what he’s doing with his head tucked into Akaashi’s shoulder, and he doesn’t lift his head to look, but he doesn’t need sight when Akaashi’s arousal is pressing clearly against the loose of his shorts. Akaashi jerks when Bokuto’s hand bumps against him, his breath catching to an inhale that barely stifles itself to silence, and Bokuto lifts his chin so he can kiss at Akaashi’s neck as he traces up the front of Akaashi’s shorts to the waistband. “I want you to come too, Akaashi.”

“We shouldn’t,” Akaashi says. His grip fixes at Bokuto’s hips but he doesn’t push the other away, even as Bokuto finds the elastic of his shorts and slides his fingers beneath it. “Not here. Someone could come in.”

“No one’ll come in,” Bokuto tells him. “No one ever comes back after practice.” He flattens his hand to Akaashi’s stomach and pushes down. “ _Please_ , Akaashi.”

Akaashi hesitates for a breath. Bokuto can feel the tension in him, tight across his shoulders and flexing his fingers at Bokuto’s hips and straining against the flat of his stomach where Bokuto’s palm is resting. Then Bokuto tips his head to urge himself closer to the soft space beneath Akaashi’s ear, whining an incoherent plea in the back of his throat, and all Akaashi’s tension gives way into a surrender that Bokuto can feel at every point they’re pressed together.

“Fine,” Akaashi says. Bokuto rumbles wordless satisfaction at the back of his throat, and when he kisses Akaashi’s neck Akaashi tips his head to the side to give Bokuto a better angle of approach. Bokuto pushes his hand farther down, reaching past Akaashi’s waistband and into the tangle of his clothes, and when his fingers brush heat he can feel Akaashi seize an inhale at the same time his hold at Bokuto’s hips flexes over the strain of sharp-sudden intensity.

Bokuto doesn’t hesitate. He’s already leaning close to Akaashi, pressing them both back towards the bench fixed to the floor behind them; when he pushes in harder Akaashi tips backwards against the support, surrendering to Bokuto’s urging until he’s angled back beneath the force of the other’s body. Bokuto reaches down, following the length of Akaashi’s cock with his fingertips until he can curl his hold into a grip around the base of the other’s shaft, and he pulls up immediately, stroking up against Akaashi’s length with certain force. Akaashi jerks beneath him, his back curving and breath spilling into a startled exhale, and Bokuto lifts his hand from Akaashi’s shoulder to cradle the back of his head and brace the other still for the motion of his hand pulling into the demand of a steady rhythm over Akaashi’s length.

Akaashi is very quiet. If Bokuto were any farther away he isn’t sure he would even notice the other’s arousal at all, for how soft Akaashi’s breathing is and the near-perfect silence he demonstrates. But with Akaashi’s fingertips digging in at his hips, and Akaashi’s shoulders trembling with the effort of his breathing, and Akaashi’s thigh straining tension between Bokuto’s, Bokuto has no question in his mind about the efficacy of his efforts. He knows he lacks subtlety, lacks the delicate, deliberate intent Akaashi pressed into the print of his lips that Bokuto can still feel tingling against his thighs; but his grip is tight, and his movement is sure, and with Akaashi hissing over his inhales and digging his thumb in against Bokuto’s skin, he can feel the assurance of victory in every flex of his wrist and stroke of his fingers.

Akaashi goes tense, at the end. Bokuto can hear it in the pitch of his breathing drawing up as tension gets the better of his intentional silence, can feel it in the curl of Akaashi’s shoulders as he tips up to flex against the resistance of Bokuto leaning in over him. Akaashi’s head comes forward, his forehead presses to Bokuto’s shoulder; his knee slides between the other’s thighs, drawing up higher like he’s trying to curl in on himself, as if he’s flinching away from the sensation coming for him. But Bokuto has his face pressed to Akaashi’s neck, their legs entangled and his fingers pressing to the space framed by the other’s hips, and Akaashi’s reflexive strain just pulls him closer to breathe the sweat-heat of the other’s skin into his lungs and listen for the faint whimper of sound in Akaashi’s throat as heat builds to an unbearable strain in him. He lingers at the edge for a long moment, his shoulders tense, his thighs trembling with involuntary force; and then he jolts, and breaks, and comes over Bokuto’s stroking grip. Akaashi’s fingers seize, flexing motion like he’s trying to brace himself, his body quivers with the surge of pleasure that breaks through him, and when his voice spills free it shapes to a dark, throaty moan that goes straight through Bokuto like a second wave of arousal breaking over him. Bokuto groans into Akaashi’s throat, rocking forward in his desperation to be closer, and Akaashi clutches at his hips and spends his shudders of pleasure against the support of Bokuto against him.

Bokuto is breathing as hard as Akaashi by the time they go still. His hand is still inside Akaashi’s shorts, his sticky fingers still closed around the other’s cock; Bokuto thinks he could stay here forever, blissfully happy with the humid heat of their shared pleasure dark and warm around them. Akaashi doesn’t wait to test this theory, though. He only lies still for a moment against the bench behind him before he lets Bokuto’s hip go to brace a hand at the floor so he can push himself to sit up as he hisses over a breath of discomfort at the motion. Bokuto lets his grip go, and after a moment thinks to slide his hand free of Akaashi’s shorts as he rocks away to let Akaashi sit back up on the floor of the locker room.

Akaashi is flushed, his cheeks stained to a darker color than Bokuto has seen from him even during the exertion and excitement of matches. He reaches to pull his shorts straight around his hips, and after a moment to push a hand through his hair, but even with his composure returned Bokuto thinks there’s something sultry at the set of his lips and beneath the weight of his lashes. When Akaashi lifts his gaze to find Bokuto staring at him the green of his eyes is darkened until it looks nearly black, deep and endless with shadows that catch Bokuto’s breath on anticipation. 

Akaashi presses his lips together. Bokuto can see his throat work as he swallows. “Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto feels his heart racing with the thrill of the unknown, with the possibilities for what Akaashi might say next. “Yes, Akaashi?”

Akaashi holds Bokuto’s gaze for a moment before he dips his chin to nod at the other’s hand. “Go wash your hands before we go.” 

Akaashi lifts his hand to set at the top of the bench as he gets to his feet. Bokuto is left kneeling on the floor, staring blankly up at the other for the moment before his thoughts draw together into coherency.

“What?” he exclaims, finally, and scrambles to his own feet as well. “We’re leaving? Just like that?” Akaashi looks up at Bokuto as Bokuto steps forward. “I’m not ready yet.”

Akaashi heaves a sigh. “We’ve been here for an hour,” he says. “What else do you  _ want_, Bokuto-san?”

Bokuto hesitates for a moment. It’s true that he always wants more, with Akaashi, no matter the time or place; but his body is warm and worn out, exhausted by their usual extra practice and drained to languid pleasure by the addition of this last indulgence. He can’t plead for a second round, even if he thought he could persuade Akaashi into it; and then he catches a breath of inspiration and beams a smile.

“I want a kiss,” he says. “Please, Akaashi?”

Akaashi sighs. “Alright,” he says. “One more kiss, Bokuto-san.” And he turns his head up to meet the weight of Bokuto’s mouth against his.

He sounds resigned, as if he’s making a great sacrifice in this allowance; but when Bokuto trails his one kiss away from Akaashi’s lips to the line of his jaw Akaashi doesn’t voice a word of protest, and when Bokuto takes a step in to urge Akaashi back against the lockers Akaashi falls back as his hands find their way into Bokuto’s hair and his mouth finds its way back to Bokuto’s smile.


End file.
